The spring morning on which Evarne was to make her first appearance in this new studio dawned fresh and crisp. On the outward journey she purchased a bunch of daffodils, and slipped them between the revers of her warm squirrel coat. A little cap of the same grey fur perched itself jauntily upon her thick hair, beneath which her clear, calm eyes looked forth upon the world with a certain sweet and serene complacency.

She had allowed herself more than sufficient time for finding her goal, and was ushered by an elderly charwoman into an empty studio. She sat down patiently to wait, picking up the day's newspaper to pass the time until Mr. Hardy should arrive.

Gradually the feeling assailed her that she was being watched. At length the conviction became sufficiently strong to cause her to lower her paper and look round. There, sure enough, in an open doorway, stood a young man.

She rose rather suddenly to her feet. This was presumably Mr. Danvers.

"Excuse my staring so hard," said Geoff rather awkwardly, as he came forward. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"I'm here to be looked at, you know," was the smiling retort, and then a confused silence prevailed.

Any embarrassment before strangers was an unusual experience, and Evarne found herself consciously casting around in her mind for something to say.

"May I put my daffodils into water—I should be sorry to see them fade?" she asked at length.

For answer Geoff impulsively seized a bunch of roses by their unhappy heads, whipped them out of their vase and flung them aside.

"Put your flowers here," he said.

"You need not have done that," suggested Evarne somewhat reproachfully. "There was plenty of room for my daffodils beside your roses."

There was another pause.

"Do you believe in omens?" asked Geoff suddenly.

"I hardly know," was the uninspiring response.

Once more came a pause of considerable duration. Conversation between these two, neither usually gauche or dull-witted, seemed to consist of brief, somewhat inane remarks, interlarded with long periods of silence. But these protracted intervals were strangely devoid of any unpleasant feeling of restraint.

Meeting Geoffrey's grey eyes fixed full upon her, Evarne instinctively smiled at him, slowly and serenely as was her wont. The young man rose from his chair with an abrupt start, and, crossing over to his easel, commenced to sort out brushes.

"I, too, am going to paint from you, Miss Stornway," he explained with his back to her, "but my friend must arrange your pose. He has got an order for the picture. I can't think what is keeping him."

Even as he spoke Jack swept in like a whirlwind, full of explanations.

"Have you been here long, Miss Stornway? Well, never mind, only be as quick as you can in dressing, there's a good girl. I want you to wear this. Where on earth is it? Have you looked at the costume this morning, Geoff?"

"Which costume?"

"The one you helped me twist up yesterday, of course."

From the recesses of the plaster-room Jack produced what was apparently a white rope, but as he proceeded to shake it out, it expanded into a loose sleeveless gown. It was made of almost transparent muslin, and had been damped, twisted round as tightly as possible while still wet, and thus left to dry. As a result it was now covered with innumerable little folds and creases, delightfully reminiscent of the draperies of antique statues.

Before to-day had Evarne worn just such a robe, and knowing that nothing was better calculated to emphasise her commanding beauty than was this graceful simplicity, it was with considerable satisfaction that she took it from Jack's hand and retired to the model's room. A white ribbon was provided to confine the falling folds beneath her breast; the only touch of colour was the rich blue of the cornflowers and golden yellow of ripe wheat-ears that composed a wreath for her head. She did not hurry in the least over her toilette, but took as much time as ever she required in arranging her hair graciously beneath the light garland, and in carefully coaxing and smoothing into artistic folds the masses of snowy drapery, and moulding it to her form. She felt strangely, unreasonably excited—peculiarly anxious to look her very best for Mr. Hardy's benefit. She gazed at her reflection critically ere leaving her retreat, and having an artist's eye, her lips inevitably curved into a soft smile of satisfaction.

"Well, you do look ripping!" exclaimed Jack impulsively, as she appeared and stood motionless for a moment to be surveyed.

Geoff was silent, but Evarne's glance had somehow wandered towards him, and his eyes had spoken. Half-unconsciously she gave a tiny happy laugh, as, scorning the step, she sprang lightly upon the throne.

Never had a day sped with such magical rapidity. For the first time in her whole experience as an artist's model she was genuinely sorry when twilight fell and work had to be abandoned. Strangely, strangely attractive was the mental atmosphere of this studio, wherein luxury and ambition blossomed side by side.

She had received in her life not a few personal lessons concerning the uncertainty of Fate and mutability of Fortune, while from Philia's teachings she had learned it all over again second-hand. As the old woman put it—

"Yer goes out innercent and unsuspectin' for a quiet walk, and perhaps you're brought 'ome on a shutter dead as a doornail, from a chimney-pot 'avin fallen and cracked yer skull; or you've been squashed by a motor; or shot by a lunatic; or bit by a mad dog. All them things 'appens to some folks. Maybe your turn next, maybe mine. Or, more ordinary like, a bit o' grit blows into yer eye all in the twinklin' of a second—no warnin' at all—and yer goes gropin' 'arf-blind for the rest of the day."

Evarne returned home that evening with a metaphorical "bit o' grit" having blown in her eye, "in a twinkling of a second—no warning at all." Many a studio had she entered, many an artist had she known, clever, young and attractive, who had been kind and considerate to her, even as Geoffrey Danvers. What quality did he possess in any superlative degree to mark him out from all others? What was there about him that awoke such—well—such a keen and ardent interest in her mind, not only for himself and his work, but for everything with which he was even remotely connected? He had not said or done anything at all original or particularly interesting, yet she found herself dwelling upon his every word, every action, recalling and musing upon his most casual unprofessional glance.

Perhaps, after all, the deep and engrossing impression he had made was but the natural outcome of the ardent admiration she had felt for those of his paintings that were still in the studio. Instantly had she realised that here was work of no common order—that there was a combination of charm and of force, an instinct for the dramatic, together with a certain dreamy mysticism, a poetic treatment of daring realism, that could not possibly have been evolved by a banal, uninteresting mind. Surely a man's self can often be better read in his works than by years of ordinary acquaintanceship?

When Philia made her usual inquiries regarding the personal appearance of these new employers, Evarne had described Jack Hardy well enough, but her recollection of Geoff was apparently vague.

"Well—let me think—he has fair hair, but he is clean-shaven, and he was dressed in light grey."

"Yes?"

"There is nothing much to tell, really. He is a bit taller than I am—I noticed that when he stood up on the throne to make some alteration in my wreath. When he is working he wears a painting overall of blue linen, which betrays vanity."

"Pore young man. Why should yer say that?"

"I'm sure he knows the colour suits him. Now, Mr. Hardy only has brown holland."

"Is Mr. Danvers good-looking?"

Evarne reflected a moment, then temporised.

"I thought so," she answered.

Days came and passed. A whole week went by, but her mental vision in no way recovered its normal equipoise.

"Whatever 'as took yer, Evarne?" inquired Philia at supper one evening, when some blatant act of absent-mindedness proclaimed that her companion's thoughts were far away. "There's no tellin' now what you'll be up to next. You're anticking about jist as if you'd fallen in love."

"Fallen in love!" Evarne had never liked that term; it had seemed to her somewhat cheap and light. But, after all, was it not strangely descriptive—full of realism? Only last week she and "that other" had been total strangers. Now—ah! now—what a difference! Only a few mutual glances; a tender pressure of the hand; a stolen smile, so full of meaning—at once the whole world bore a different face, was lit by a new glory; all life's hopes and possibilities sprung forth anew, richly scented, brightly hued. "Fallen in love" indeed! What other imaginable phrase could so forcefully express both the suddenness and the personal irresponsibility of that which had brought to pass this all-wondrous change?

Evarne pictured love as a seething, rushing torrent. It had nigh drowned her in a maelstrom once, but she had scrambled out, and the last drop of its cruel waters had long since dried from her garments. Now she had walked quietly along as if on its flat, dull, safe banks for many a year, merely smiling serenely, somewhat scornfully, at those who—dabbling their feet where its eddies were calm and shallow—had stretched forth their hands, inviting her to join them in their child's play. But in the fated hour a pair of grey eyes had gazed up at her from out the depths of the stream; she had looked a moment too long, too intently, and had fallen sheer into the flood and was swept helplessly along in its wild current. Surely it was far safer to retain one's balance always and ever, to keep a steady head and avoid even this divine fall? Mayhap! Yet so far—drifting lightly and unresistingly—she could not regret. The touch of these waters was indeed pleasant; they tasted sweet within her mouth. Rocks there were indeed—cruel, menacing boulders—yet she came not nigh them. Surely it was better here, far better, despite dangers cruel and manifold, than on those level arid banks.

A fortnight glided by, and not a day but saw fresh verses added to the poem of which these two had, all unconsciously, composed the opening stanzas at the very moment of their first meeting. So far this song of love ran in simple cadence—easy of construction and rhythm. Not a line had yet been sent forth into the air. Strophe and antistrophe were sung in silence, yet with perfect mutual comprehension and harmony.

Never since those first few minutes—given over to apparent tongue-tied embarrassment—had Geoffrey and Evarne been together without Jack making a third. While this was certainly in the ordinary course of events, it was also, in some degree, the outcome of deliberate design on Jack's part. That young man had the greatest fear of love. He viewed it with apprehension and misgiving, a disease, a madness, to be warded off and avoided desperately—at all events by an artist. He might not know very much about the matter, or the symptoms by which it made its terrible presence manifest, but very soon indeed he was assailed by an alarming suspicion that Geoff regarded Miss Stornway differently from other models, dangerously differently.

Jack was uneasy. He felt a sort of responsibility for having introduced the young woman into the studio, much as he would have held himself guilty had he brought home fever from one of his searches for "La Belle Dame," and thus prostrated his friend upon a bed of sickness. He had a vague idea that his presence might somehow suffice to nip any growing feeling of affection in the bud. Thus he conscientiously hovered around.

And Geoffrey—a prey to many conflicting emotions—raised no objection. There were reasons that made it very desirable that he should not grow to seriously care for this fascinating model. Not being of a nature that could treat emotional matters lightly, for some time his delight in Evarne's presence was largely diluted by an ardent wish that he had never seen her fair face. But this marvellous wisdom did not have things all its own way.

The date was rapidly approaching when he had arranged to leave England. Geoff's two young travelling companions were continually dropping in, full of eager talk of the journey and the work that was going to be accomplished at Venice. Day by day his gradually growing dislike of this proposed absence from London increased.

At length a mental crisis came. His many conflicting thoughts settled themselves into a resolution.

"I say, Jack," he announced one evening, "you had better go to Venice with those boys. I have just made up my mind that I'm not going. You can be ready in three days, can't you?"

Jack absolutely gasped.

"Why not? Why are you not going?"

"I prefer to stop in England. I—I—well, I suppose I may as well tell you. There's no reason for secrecy. I've seen the woman I want to marry."

Jack tried to look mystified and at a loss, as if thereby he could ward off the evil hour.

"Who is it?" he inquired.

"Why, you blind old bat, who should it be but—Miss Stornway?"

The blow had fallen.

"Geoffrey Danvers!" and Jack's voice was full of horror. "You must not be so idiotic!"

The young man laughed lightly as he answered—

"Object, argue and discuss as much as you like. I'll talk to you for hours about her. Why should I not marry that sweet girl? Tell me?"

"Well, after all she's only a—only a——"

"Only a model! What on earth has that got to do with it?"

"It's a very serious objection on earth, whatever it may be in heaven," retorted Jack, flattering himself he had been rather smart.

"And don't you know where marriages are made? I tell you she is the one woman Heaven intended for me. Don't think I love her only for her beauty—though she is lovely beyond all words. But if her eyes were small and squinting, yet had that same beautiful soul shining out of them——"

Jack interrupted. Even his limited imagination was capable of supplying the conclusion of this sentiment.

"Look here, Geoff! Do see reason."

"I prefer to see Evarne."

"But you cannot—you must not—marry an artist's model whom you haven't known for three weeks——"

"That's a mere detail. It's my misfortune, isn't it, not my fault, that I didn't meet her years ago? As to her being a model—what of it? It's an honest enough profession when a girl is obliged to earn her own living, and you know when her father died and left her penniless she had to do something. Everybody knows that needlework is a starving occupation, and I think that old woman who suggested her taking up this business was a paragon of wisdom. There's nothing at all in Miss Stornway's life that anyone could take exception to, unless they were utterly bigoted. You can't find any story to her discredit in any studio, or on the lips of any artist. Everyone speaks well of her, she is entirely admirable—brave, beautiful——!"

"Oh, she's a nice girl enough, and I don't doubt she's straight as a die. But don't—don't rush into this affair madly and hastily. You were going to Venice. Well, for goodness' sake go."

"I will, later on, and take Evarne with me. I say, I take it all very much for granted, don't I? But she does care for me—you think she does, eh?"

Jack discreetly suppressed the retort that rose to his lips.

"How can I tell? But, of course, I meant go alone to Italy, to test the reality of your feelings. Six months out of a lifetime—why, it's nothing, if it be really an affair for a lifetime. And if absence shows it to be but a passing fancy—well, you will have done no harm to her or to yourself."

"If I didn't see her for twenty years, I should never change, never forget her."

"And it's only six months that's in question. If she really is the woman above all others for you, then, I'd say, make her your wife even if she were a beggar in the streets. But be sure first, Geoff! You're twenty-six now—not a hot-brained boy. Do submit your fancy to this small test before you fly in the face of society. You know what a general row there will be, and how all your own set will disapprove. You are the heir to a title, though you never seem to remember it, so that your marriage is a matter of real importance."

"I've thought of all that. Don't think I've overlooked any of the arguments my family would be sure to bring up. But I am not going to let my vague prospects make any serious difference in my life. Why, I dare say the title will never come to me. Winborough quite easily might live longer than I."

"It's hardly likely since he's about a quarter of a century older. Anyway, there's the possibility, not to say the likelihood, that your wife will one day find herself a countess, and that your son will be the future Earl of Winborough. It really is no light matter, old fellow. Don't disappoint these boys; go to Venice with them, and see how you feel toward Miss Stornway when you come back."

"And have some other lucky beggar with more gumption carrying her off in the meanwhile?"

"If she married anyone else in six months it would most certainly prove that she had not got the same true depth of feeling for you that you have for her. You ought to be sure, both of yourself and of her, before you make her your wife."

Thus Jack continued, arguing and discussing, talking the profoundest of common sense, yet with enough of sympathy to add weight to his words. And again Geoffrey saw the dark side of the shield, noticed the shadows athwart the roseate path. Finally he resolved not to alter his plans for the summer. Six months would soon be gone, and the passing of this time of test would sweep the last lingering scruples from his mind.

"It is a serious matter, and ought to be treated seriously. I'm glad I've resolved to go," was his ultimate conclusion.

"I shall often write to you, Evarne," he declared, holding the girl's hands as they bade each other farewell. "You will answer my letters, won't you?"

She did not look up, not able to trust herself to meet his eyes.

"Yes," she replied very meekly, yet gloriously gladdened at heart. "I will write if you wish me to."

Impulsively Geoffrey bent down and kissed first one of the hands he held and then the other. Thus they parted.